


Give Me Cover

by sordes



Series: We Have to Stop Meeting like This [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, F/M, Suicide mention, Vaginal Sex, intimacy issues, let prompto be a man 2k18
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:16:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: It was funny how quickly one adapted to life with zero privacy, to losing any self-consciousness about performing every intimate action in close proximity to relative strangers. Everyone was just used to it by now. Everything from shitting to showering was carried out with little fanfare, the embarrassment of normal body function and nudity long forgotten. Sex was the same. Inhibitions were lost, because of course, they had to be if the deed was going to get done.They found themselves in one of the sleeping tents, only a thin sheet of nylon between them and the other Hunters still around the campfire. They wouldn’t have it all to themselves for long, but for the time being it was theirs.Prompto offers comfort that Aranea can't accept.





	Give Me Cover

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by [AccursedSpatula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accursedspatula).  
>   
> How we got from facesitting to /angst/ I can't even tell you, but here we are.

Everything just felt off.

It was a feeling akin to seeing the ocean just pull back and disappear without a trace—the sudden absence of the normal sounds of water breaking on the beach, of the waves flowing back onto itself, gone in a vacuum. But Aranea knew, should the ocean ever retreat, not to go out looking for it. The vacuum wasn’t permanent, and when the water, when the stimuli, did return, it would come with a fury.

Aranea firmed her grip on her lance, though it was already tight enough to nearly make the bones in her fingers crack. She widened her stance slightly, her powerful thighs rigid and tense and ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Her eyes rapidly scanned her surroundings, trying to fill in the gaps and holes made by the creeping dark and her fellow Hunters, dotted here and there in the periphery of her vision.

No, she didn’t like this. Not one bit.

Then she could taste it, that faint hint of ozone on her tongue. A moment later she felt it, strands of her hair rising, as if pulled up by marionette strings. Her gaze darted to the fine silver hairs on her arm, standing at attention.

Hands still firmly gripping her lance, blade planted in the dirt, Aranea sunk down into a low crouch. In another place and time, the act could have been considered erotic, as if she was some exotic dancer on a stage. But with muck smeared across her cheek, dark circles beneath her eyes, and her clothes stained and torn, this was anything but.

She caught a bright flash from the corner of her eye and on cue, launched herself upwards in a freakish display of strength. Even as she flew up she couldn’t escape the scent of burnt flesh or the screams of a few of the Hunters who had been caught off guard. Aranea’s eye twitched, though from the oppressive smell or the cold air rushing against her face, she couldn’t say. She knew all too well to compartmentalize the losses their group took, that there’d be time to process the deaths and the injuries after.

Aranea rotated her body mid-air—things always seemed to move slower when she was up high—and her eyes caught the spark they’d been waiting for. Coeruls always hunted in pairs.

In a flash Aranea violently shifted her body, aiming her lance where the spark came from, and sent herself hurtling towards it. She heard a ragged scream, radiating across the entire battlefield before dimly realizing it was coming from her. She only had one shot at this, or be eviscerated by the beast’s claws or electrocuted by its magic.

Still in freefall, Aranea let her body fall back and straight in-line with her lance, an elegant swan dive if not for the circumstances. Her aim was true. It had to be.

The next thing she knew there was a crackle of electricity in the air, and the feeling of hot, viscous blood splashing across her face—the taste of ozone wiped out by iron.

\---

The bottle opened, the bright fizzy sound of carbonation following, trailed by the light tinkling sound of the bottle cap hitting the stone ground. The hoppy aroma of the beer filled her nostrils as the bottle appeared before her eyes. Aranea blinked before looking up at the ragged Hunter who had materialized at her side. He offered the bottle, the beer sloshing lightly inside.

Aranea nodded slightly, accepted the bottle, and the Hunter stepped away. She dully realized that she didn’t know his name, or most of those in the party. She, on the other hand, was a _living legend_ —her presence inspiring awe, but also encouraging others to keep their distance. The Hunters gave her a wide berth, and she preferred it that way, always had, if she was being honest. Aranea didn’t fight in formation with them, anyway, so what was the point in getting close.

Aranea drew her knees up and stretched her arms out straight overtop them, holding the neck of the bottle in one hand. They had established camp at what was once Oathe Haven in Duscae, though the strange daemon deflecting glyphs hardly had the same eerie blue glow they once did. In place of the blue flame that was once considered standard to all havens was a normal campfire, which Aranea was seated directly in front of. The perimeter of camp was illuminated by torches and battery powered lanterns as unscathed Hunters worked to set up the generator the group had risked life and limb for delivering to this very spot.

All at once Aranea took a deep gulp from her bottle, the beer bitter and lukewarm. She grimaced slightly, but kept hold of the bottle’s neck. It tasted awful, but beer—like most things—was a commodity these days. She’d drink every drop and wouldn’t utter a word of complaint.

They had lost one on the way to Oathe Haven from Saxham Outpost. Another was taken out by the first coerul before they could secure the camp, and three had severe electrical burns. The worst part was, Aranea couldn’t find it in her to feel _sad_ about the losses, as losing people was such a normal part of everyday life now. The Hunters knew what they were in for, they knew the risks associated with venturing outside of Lestallum. After five years of darkness, their numbers had dwindled drastically. For those who were left, it was only those numbed to life who opted to venture outside of the relative safety of Lestallum’s walls and into the wilds. Getting cut down by a daemon was a much quicker way to go out than the slow course of time, and seemingly preferable to some than just ending things on their own. This was just the new normal.

What had really begun to eat away at Aranea, though, was how absolutely pointless it all was. Sure, send some guys out, spill a little daemon blood—you’d feel _good_ , empowered, even. Splashed with daemon blood, adrenaline coursing, you’d let out a primal, guttural yell or two and feel alive, like you were doing something. But that feeling of triumph would quickly fade when the reality of the situation hit home. Nothing will have changed for the better, if anything more daemons would come and fill the empty ranks. And even if the remaining scraps of humanity managed to band together an army, take the fight to the daemons, and severely cull their numbers—it’s not as if it would solve the root of the whole issue. The sun just wasn’t coming back.

The fact that there was no organized leadership hurt things, obviously. Groups of Hunters with good intentions would set out on self-imposed missions, but the lack of infrastructure and coordination meant that everyone was essentially fumbling in the dark. Groups would routinely sustain heavy casualties to regain some scrap of land, only to lose it when there was no reinforcements or fresh fighters to help hold it.

Aranea had joined up many of these ‘brigades’ in the first three years of dark. Even when the days were just growing shorter, and the seriousness of the situation hadn’t really sunken in, she could feel the weight of her former association with the Niffs dragging her down. She didn’t have the excuse of a drafted man, that she had been drawn up into something he had zero control over. Aranea had named a price and they had agreed to pay. They pointed, named a target, and she obeyed. She willfully turned a blind eye to their daemonic experiments, convinced herself it had nothing to do with her.

But she couldn’t stay ignorant forever.

So when the world, for all intents and purposes, ended, Aranea found herself amongst those crazy Hunters, trying to make a foothold in blackness. And for a time, it was good. Aranea felt useful, she felt like she was helping. The song and dance of playing hero actually made her feel like she was redeeming herself. It had taken a few years, but by this point, Aranea realized how incredibly shortsighted she was back then. What was the point of redemption when the whole world was completely fucked, anyway?

There was a slight commotion behind Aranea, followed by the sound of the generator kicking on. The gears inside resisted the impetus to move, screeching as they were forced into action. The engine roared to life, and the smell of gasoline filled the camp. Aranea had personally lugged four canisters of the generator’s lifeblood here and still had the dull ache in her arms to prove it. She knew from experience the generator would easily eat its way through three quarters of a canister each hour, and they only had seven total.

_Cheers to that._

Aranea tipped her bottle to the fire and took another deep swig of beer.

A string of lights arranged around camp flashed on, now that the power was connected, and Aranea winced at the sudden brightness. Like the glyphs, the lights were tinged with blue, and supposedly had daemon deflecting properties. So _this_ was what all that effort and sacrifice was for. A string of blue lights.

A couple of the Hunters filtered into the periphery of Aranea’s vision and took their seats around the fire. A few talked amongst themselves in low voices, but the atmosphere was tempered and restrained. Maybe the others were thinking it, too, how silly the whole venture was. But no one would ever say it out loud. That would be breaking the unspoken code they had, that everyone seemed to have: shit was hopeless, but you didn’t go lamenting over it publically. Suffering in silence was rule of thumb.

Aranea didn’t bother to look over when a Hunter sat next to her, her gaze locked on the fire in front of her. It didn’t register, either, the first two times the Hunter’s thigh brushed up against hers, but by the third, she nearly socked the guy with her free hand (no sense wasting the beer).

“Whoa, hold on!”

Aranea immediately stopped her fist. Fucking Prompto Argentum was sitting next to her, as if he’d materialized out of thin air. He certainly hadn’t been a part of their group from the start—yeah, she didn’t really pay much attention to other Hunters anymore, but it’s not as if she could’ve missed _him_. Prompto held his hands up as if to show he meant no harm. And he was grinning at her, _fucking grinning_.

“Well I’ll be damned,” she rubbed her forearm across her eyes, “it’s the ghost of fuckmas past.”

“What? Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Aranea shrugged and took a swig of her beer, then remembering her manners, offered the bottle to Prompto.

He accepted the bottle and took a sip, grimacing at the taste before going in for another swig. “I can assure you, your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you.”

Aranea let out a snarky laugh. “Uh huh. Where the fuck did you come from?”

Prompto chuckled into the bottle as he went to take another sip, but paused. He tilted the bottle to ask for permission and Aranea nodded easily. She leaned her head down onto her outstretched arms and watched him take a longer drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing. It felt too good to be true, stumbling across him out of the blue, and suddenly Aranea felt very tired. Maybe it was just a dream—but they did always seem to find each other in the strangest ways. So maybe it wasn’t so implausible after all.

Either way, Aranea had to admit to herself, Prompto looked better than when she saw him last—he had to be the only one in all of Eos who could say that. It’s not as if he had ‘blossomed’ or anything in the dark, like some kind of moon flower, but he seemed to avoid getting as much shit kicked out of him as she had. His hair was a bit longer on the sides, and _thank the Astrals_ , he had done away with that atrocious goatee, the firelight catching golden patches of stubble across his jaw and cheeks. He still looked young, definitely, but something rang a touch more mature about him now, somehow.

Prompto handed the now nearly empty bottle back to Aranea and she accepted it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and grinned over at her. “Was doing some recon in the area with Gladio and Ignis. We split up a few hours ago and I heard the generator.”

“Hey, good to hear the gang’s back together. Glad you didn’t sign those divorce papers, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Prompto laughed and gave her shoulder a playful shove.

Aranea let him jostle her shoulder and laughed softly back. “Really, though, I’m glad that whole situation worked itself out. You look good, too, especially without that shit on your face.”

She reached over with her empty hand for his face. She cupped his jaw gently, ran her thumb appraisingly over the stubble on his chin. His jaw felt sure and sturdy in her hold, and his skin was warm despite the chill in the night air.

Prompto stayed perfectly still, letting her touch his face as she pleased. She could feel him watching her, questioning her touch but not objecting to it.

“So, uh, how have things been with you?”

Aranea shrugged, like it wasn’t obvious the years hadn’t been kind.

“I mean, you look great, really. You been with these guys long, or...?”

As glad as Aranea was to see Prompto, she had little interest in talking. She dragged her thumb up from his chin, to his bottom lip. She rubbed his lip softly, killing any remaining questions on his tongue.

“You wanna just... stop talking for a bit?” She picked up her head from her arms. “No offense.”

Prompto nodded.

Aranea pulled back her hand and moved it to the rock between them. She felt Prompto’s hand brush up against hers, though when she glanced over at him, he was looking into the campfire. Aranea looked to the fire, too, but brushed her pinky finger against Prompto’s.

A moment later Prompto sniffed, then scooted himself an inch closer to Aranea.

“Kinda cold, right?”

Aranea downed the rest of the beer then set the empty bottle down at her side, a clunk from the glass ringing dully between them. “Yep.”

She let him put his hand over hers between them, realizing her fingers were icy in comparison his. The heat was welcome, and Aranea found herself wanting those hands on the rest of her body. From the way Prompto gave her hand a squeeze, she had a feeling he was thinking the same.

\---

It was funny how quickly one adapted to life with zero privacy, to losing any self-consciousness about performing every intimate action in close proximity to relative strangers. Everyone was just used to it by now. Everything from shitting to showering was carried out with little fanfare, the embarrassment of normal body function and nudity long forgotten. Sex was the same. Inhibitions were lost, because of course, they had to be if the deed was going to get done.

Aranea and Prompto found themselves in one of the sleeping tents, only a thin sheet of nylon between them and the other Hunters still around the campfire. They wouldn’t have it all to themselves for long, but for the time being it was theirs.

Clothing was peeled off piece by piece and dropped to the ground to be found later. They were unhurried but methodical and singularly focused in getting everything immediately in the way gone. Both were out of their pants quickly enough, bunched up and kicked out of. Prompto lost his jacket somewhere, but before either could yank a shirt off, Prompto eased himself down onto one of the unfurled sleeping bags, pulling Aranea across his lap.

Their mouths met as their bodies slid together. The kiss was slow but there was urgency behind it, like both needed this more than they previously thought. As much as Aranea liked drawing things out most times, right now she just wanted Prompto inside of her and _fast_. If pressed she would use the communal tent as an excuse, but already wet and more than ready, Aranea pulled away from the kiss as she raised herself on her knees. A hand drifted to Prompto’s cock and she aligned him with her entrance. Before Prompto could utter a word of concern or question, the tip of his cock was buried inside of her.

Aranea sighed contentedly at the sensation and leaned into Prompto. He dropped his hands to her hips and eased her down on his cock slowly, until the tops of his thighs were flush against the underside of hers. Bottomed out, Prompto let out a breath he’d been holding, the warmth hitting Aranea’s cheek. She readjusted her thighs, squeezing them around Prompto, and lowered her face into the crook of his neck. She just wanted to stay like that, perfectly still and full, breathing in his clean scent.

From nowhere, the thought that this—being here with Prompto—felt safe and right struck her. This felt different from any other time they’d fallen together, it felt like there was something behind it, something more to it than just getting each other’s rocks off. It felt good, physically, but emotionally it was deeply unsettling to Aranea. This level of emotional vulnerability was completely uncharted territory for her, it felt unnatural and incredibly unnerving.

Despite the gnawing thoughts that she was making a mistake here, she was letting her guard down, she couldn’t deny the fact that her body shared zero of these concerns. She tried to pinpoint the source of her intrusive thoughts, what had made her seek out this comfort, but came up empty handed. It wasn’t like there was any one thing from the expedition and the fight with the coeruls that had upset her, really. Rather it dawned on her then that it was simply a culmination of five years of pitch blackness with no end in sight. It was the steady buildup of stress and anxiety and fear and uselessness to the point that it had dulled her down, made it so she didn’t feel much of anything anymore. She should want to scream or cry, but she didn’t even have the urge to do that. Catharsis wasn’t even an option anymore.

But being here with Prompto—that goofball kid who somehow became a man under the cover of darkness—just existing with him had quelled those feelings. It was only when her mind turned to over-analyzing and warning her that she was getting in too deep that she began to question things.

Aranea was caught between the emotional urge to run, to remove herself from the situation, and the physical desire to stay. Mind and body at an impasse, she just let herself be still, holding Prompto tightly, her arms wrapped around his back. Prompto seemed to get a sense of the internal turmoil, and snaked his arms around her back, too, and just held her steady.

“You okay?” Prompto asked softly. She could feel him rub his cheek against the back of her head and her body tensed up.

“Yeah,” she murmured quickly into his skin, not caring if he could hear her or not. She didn’t trust herself to say anything more, given the affectionate gesture.

Prompto traced little nothings her back with his thumbs in response, moving them in small, languid circles. Afraid of what Prompto would do next and in the hopes of keeping things in more familiar territory, she worked her hips in a slow circle, grinding around his cock.

Prompto let out a hitched breath and gripped her back tighter. Aranea could feel his heart flutter at the movement and brought a hand over it, the rapid thrumming of his heartbeat now underneath her fingertips. It felt fast, even for someone excited, more hummingbird than young man in his mid-twenties.

“Can I move?” he asked, his question muffled against her hair.

Relieved he was dropping the subject, Aranea nipped the crook of his neck. “Just a little.”

Prompto dragged a hand down to her hip to hold her steady. With her weight squared across Prompto’s lap, he didn’t have much room to thrust, but he began to cant his hips up, working himself shallowly in and out of her. Aranea whimpered into the crook of his neck and shoulder, her hand pressing into Prompto’s chest over his heart.

Aranea squeezed her thighs around Prompto, riding out the shallow thrusts. Aranea bit down on her lower lip to suppress a cry, but it came out as a muffled groan instead. She had no reason to be embarrassed, but she found herself burying her face in the crook of Prompto’s neck.

“Is that good?” Prompto asked, not skipping a beat as he continued to thrust up and into her.

Aranea nodded yes against him and Prompto chuckled softly. “Okay.”

His hand on her hip shift forward, an exploratory thumb reaching down between her legs. She felt the digit ghost over her clit, startling her slightly, then sighed as it swirled around their point of joining, gathering some of the wetness. It ventured back up, finding her clit once more, and traced slow circles around it.

Aranea whimpered against Prompto at the new stimulation, the combination of the deep internal sensation and soft strokes externally steadily driving her to the edge. Everything built up steadily, pleasure pooling in her lower body and radiating up her spine. She felt her nipples harden against the cups of her bra, and found herself powerless to distract herself from the inevitable. Where she would normally set to adorning her partner’s skin with love marks, raking her fingernails encouragingly across their back, she could only clutch to him, hand over his heart, breath ragged against Prompto’s neck.

Her orgasm washed over her before she knew it. It wasn’t a powerful one, not like the ones that made her go cross-eyed and slack jawed, but one that was reserved, a gentle crest that matched the languid pace. The sensation rippled out in waves from where they joined, down her legs and up her spine, making her toes curl and uncurl repeatedly. Her muscles clenched and unclenched around Prompto’s cock as he continued to thrust up into her, and she was sure he could feel all of it and would know he had brought her over the edge. But she didn’t cry out, she didn’t moan, she just held him all the tighter and endured it.

Aranea focused on feeling of her breath washing back onto her face, deflected by her close proximity to Prompto’s neck. She was being weird and it was obvious, she knew it; she wasn’t any fun like this—this wasn’t what he signed up for. He didn’t need her baggage. Her thoughts turned dark as the hazy bliss from her orgasm dimmed. A moment later Prompto’s thumb was too much on her, her nerves too sensitive, so she dropped her hand from over his heart and gently removed his touch.

Prompto slowed his thrusts, bringing them back to where they began, his cock still deeply lodged inside of her. Aranea knew she couldn’t just linger there forever, hiding her face. She took in a deep breath through her nose and finally raised her head from Prompto’s shoulder. He was looking at her, those big blue eyes searching for the defect in her perfectly neutral façade. But Aranea was trained, hardened, by circumstance never to let her weakness show. She had let her guard down quite enough for one day, and was not interested in lowering her defenses anymore that night.

“What?” She mustered her crassest tone, smothering her swirling emotions with a heavy coating of sarcasm and deflection. Though she could do little to control the pink flush that had cascaded over her neck and face, she kept her eyes steely and hard.

“You wanna tell me what’s up?”

Aranea screwed her head sideways, putting on an act of confusion so convincing she nearly fooled herself. “What’re you talking about?”

Prompto frowned. “Dude.”

“What? Just cause I’m not screaming and drooling over your dick means something’s wrong? I’m over the hill now, in case you forgot. Don’t have the energy for it anymore.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re _not_ over the hill. You’re acting weird.”

Aranea scoffed. “That’s not true.”

“It kinda is,” he countered, giving Aranea’s hip a firm squeeze. “And in case you forgot,” he thrust shallowly up into her, drawing a sharp gasp from Aranea’s mouth, “you’re not exactly in a position to lie to me right now.”

“Oh, so now you’re threatening me? That’s low.”

“Hey,” he thrust up again sharply, “I gotta use whatever resources I got when you go all far eyed and silent on me.”

Aranea shoved his shoulder, and not entirely playfully. “I’m talking, aren’t I?”

“Alright, don’t twist my words.” Prompto moved his head in an easily dodged head-butt. Aranea pulled her head back, nonplussed. “You can trust me, you know that, right?” His voice was laced with such sincerity that Aranea hardly knew how to respond.

_Just when the hell did this kid grow up?_

“Yeah...” she began, her gaze betraying her by dropping eye contact for just a second, giving her away. She quickly recovered. “Look, as much as I appreciate it, there’s really nothing to say.”

By this point, the mood wasn’t irrevocably soured, but it was going south quickly. Aranea ground her hips down onto Prompto in an attempt to change the topic of conversation. He groaned at the friction, but firmed up his grip on Aranea’s hips. He wasn’t going to let it go that easily.

“C’mon, if you aren’t feeling good, or something happened… I’m a good listener.”

“You’re sweet, Blondie, but really. Let’s just, keep going.” She ground her hips down again to press her point, but this time she didn’t even work a groan out of Prompto.

“You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Aranea.”

“I told you to drop it.”

“Seriously? After everything you’re gonna shut me out like this?”

_Was he actually angry?_

Aranea rolled her eyes. “Look, are we going to finish up here, or do you wanna keep playing armchair psychologist?”

“Fine. Up, up.” His hands moved underneath Aranea’s thighs and pushed up against her. “Get off.”

Aranea scoffed incredulously, but with Prompto trying to lift her off of his dick she quickly realized he wasn’t kidding. She raised her hips, pulling herself off of him and out of his lap. As soon as she had cleared his body, Prompto scrambled to his feet, swiping his discarded pants and underwear off the floor. He shoved them on together, one leg and at a time, despite his erection bobbing in front of him. Aranea just watched, not bothering to mask her displeasure.

“So this is it, then?”

“Don’t act like we have something going on, because clearly—we don’t.”

“I meant, the sex—”

“Yeah, that’s all you seem to be interested in.” He winced as he yanked his zipper up.

Something snapped inside of Aranea. Anger flashed over her and the idea that Prompto was her friend, someone she was intimate with and cared for, suddenly lost all meaning.

“I’m not going to just break down and sob—that’s not me. I have never been afforded the luxury of falling to pieces and being weak, so really, you’ll have to forgive me for not crying about my feelings or opening up to the guy I’ve mommied and fucked in the past.”

Prompto just stared at her, his eyes nearly ablaze with hurt and scorn. She knew she had gone too far, that she had exploited something unspeakably private. Aranea wanted to look away from him, she wanted to apologize, but it was like she was on auto-pilot, the heartless automaton inside of her intent on wreaking as much destruction as possible.

“So what the fuck do you want me to say?” She pressed.

“At this point? Absolutely nothing.”

Aranea didn’t wince, she was too well trained for that. She held his gaze for a beat longer before flicking her eyes down to his feet.

Prompto shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering with the laces, then scooped up his discarded jacket and crammed his arms into it.

“And really, I’m not asking for a lot here, Aranea. I don’t know a fucking thing about you, and not from a lack of trying.”

Aranea managed to find a bit more venom inside herself. “What could you possibly need to know? What did you honestly think we were doing here? Baring our souls?”

“I guess I just thought after some of the shit we’ve both been through, maybe you were capable of having a bit more of a heart and not being such a colossal bitch. But hey, looks like I was wrong. So y’know what? You do you, Aranea. I don’t need this bullshit on top of everything else I deal with on a daily basis.”

“So go.”

Aranea regretted it the moment it left her lips. Things had spiraled and tumbled out of control; now it wasn’t something she could just wave away with a laugh and an apology. She had no right to right to feel this way, not when she was the source of the contention. She didn’t deserve it, but she wanted Prompto to just take a deep breath, not let her abrasiveness win, and stay. She wanted him to stay.

She really wanted him to stay.

So it came as no surprise, then, that it hurt like hell when Prompto turned and left the tent without a word of goodbye.

Aranea wouldn’t cry, she didn’t cry. Even in times like this, that was just something she didn’t do. Instead she just sat there on the sleeping bag for a minute, alone, waiting on the off chance that he might return… though deep down she knew he wouldn’t. After the minute passed, she gathered up her discarded clothes and slipped them on, then immediately tucked herself into the sleeping bag, determined just to sleep it off and push the caustic feelings of self-loathing and hurt deep down enough so they lost their sharpness. She could deal with the dull ache—she had been for nearly all her life.

After a while, Aranea heard a few of the other Hunters shuffle into the tent and unfurl some of the other sleeping bags and bed down for the night. She knew they had heard everything, they didn’t exactly try and keep their voices down, but it didn’t matter. No one would say anything, anyway.

Aranea wrapped her arms tightly around herself and ducked her chin down into her chest. She could smell Prompto on the fabric of the sleeping bag, and as disconcerting as that was, as her body heat filled the space she grew drowsy to the point she was too tired to care. Still, the irony of falling asleep surrounded by his scent despite everything wasn’t lost on her.

\---

Aranea woke a few hours later, remained still in her sleeping bag as the fight with Prompto played out again in her head. She hadn’t experienced a sudden change of heart, she still had zero desire to give Prompto that emotional access he so desired… but she did want to apologize. She knew she had crossed a line, used information that he trusted her with against him.

Decided, she sat up and confirmed that Prompto was not amongst the sleeping Hunters arranged around her. Quietly, so as not to wake anyone, Aranea slipped out of her sleeping bag and exited the tent, closing the flaps behind her.

There were a few Hunters milling around the outside, keeping watch along the perimeter of camp. Aranea nodded taciturnly to them as she moved to the other side of the campfire to the second sleeping tent. She stuck her head inside, squinting in the gloom, her eyes passing over each of the sleeping Hunters’ faces. Prompto was not among them.

Aranea stepped back from the tent and craned her neck around camp. Prompto was not one of the Hunters on watch, either. Sure, he wasn’t a part of their group to begin with, but she didn’t expect him to just leave completely.

_And without saying anything._ She kicked herself for thinking that.

Aranea crossed her arms as the inkling feeling of unease settled inside her. At the rate things were going, she wouldn’t see him for another two years—why couldn’t she just be normal? Be like other people and just bend a little if it meant making someone else happy?

_Fuck._

He hadn’t told here where he was going, just that he was doing recon in the area. Taelpar was relatively nearby, so that could be his base of operations… but they were also close enough to Lestallum that he could’ve been operating from there. She had heard rumors that there had been attempts to secure the Wiz Chocobo Post recently, too, so she couldn’t rule that locale out, either.

Aranea let out a tetchy sigh. Standing here wasn’t going to accomplish anything. She couldn’t let fate determine their next meeting if there was to be one at all.

In a flash she darted back into the tent she had slept in and gathered her bag and lance and was back out. She refilled her canteen and took a bit of food from the camp’s stocks, the Hunters on guard duty just watching.

“You didn’t happen to see a blond twerp leave here a couple hours ago? The guy who just showed up out of the blue,” she asked offhandedly to one of them as she stuffed the supplies in her bag.

They just shrugged. _Figures._

Aranea caught the way one of the Hunters was looking at her when she finished loading up her bag. That empty, faraway look in his eyes hit a hair too close to home and she shook her head slightly. Aranea reached back into her bag and pulled out two potions from the very bottom of her belongings—rainy day supplies. She pressed them into the hands of the Hunter.

“Give those to the guys who got burnt. Okay?”

One of the other Hunters nodded and took the potions from his comrade.

Yeah, it felt good to be useful after all. She knew, though, as she slung her bag over her shoulder and picked up her lance, that the feeling wouldn’t last forever. But maybe just this once, if she forced herself to feel something, forced herself out of her comfort zone, maybe it wouldn’t fade so fast.


End file.
